


bang bang pow

by -aforesaid (floater)



Series: to infinity and beyond [2]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Dark, Don't Examine This Too Closely, Gen, How Do I Tag, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mental Breakdown, Murder, Non-Consensual, Not Beta Read, Psychological Trauma, Sad, Sexual Abuse, Uncle/Nephew Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-09 03:52:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17994329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floater/pseuds/-aforesaid
Summary: 「youngho's story is one for the books of a maniac」





	bang bang pow

**Author's Note:**

> first and foremost, this entire series is definitely not meant to sexualize or romanticize rape and incest as well as abuse. if you think this series is for said topics as fetishes, sorry to say but you're in the wrongest place possible.
> 
> trigger warnings at bottom, skip down to read them beforehand.
> 
> sorry in advance for mistakes and errors, enjoy ~

### bang bang pow

it was a moment even the forgetful would remember.

the rush of freedom, his shaking hands as the room began to stink, his tear filled eyes as he tasted red for the first and last time—the moment of truth! liberation! 

it was orgasmic in the most painful of ways, it was graciously agonizing, la petite mort until it fizzled out into words of pain—even poetry couldn't capture the insanity of it all! the relief it brought was inexplicable, endearingly disastrous in such a manner that; disgusted with himself yet jovial and liberated, he screamed.

the day he killed that man, he'd been cowering in the hallways of what once was his and his mother's home—his hair had overgrown, unfashionably long as parts were short and angled, clipped and horribly cut; his natural hue had paled, his health had been just as sickly as his complexion, and his face was expressionless.

laughably, he supposes, he shown no liveliness, but still cried with the passion of a child.

yet he was nothing close to a child physically—a man, 6 feet and only the smallest he had ever been, 98 pounds and with too-thin-wrists that scarred easily; he wasn't in any physical context a child.

but he was, somewhere and somehow, a little boy.

a little boy that cried and wailed, screamed and sobbed, yet never fought back.

never.

his uncle made him stand in the hallway the night before. he’d left him for hours, then returned _drunk._

his words were slurred, smile crooked, and he laid on the couch with ease, watched television as if this was a normal day—even though it _wasn't._

and youngho could cope, _he always endured._

but his legs were cramping, stomach growling, his eyes were downcast even as he spoke, and all he craved was a moment to exist yet disappear— _alone._

"u-uncle?" 

the word had lost its innocence. his voice had too.

but he could say it in every language he knew, could beg in the form of a family-set name with the exaggerations of literary advancement; and the man would still react the same way. 

angrily.

he sat up, his body seemed lax, his eyes were fixed on youngho and youngho only—"three." he says, no context, no elaboration. 

youngho somehow forgets that this man is who he is, that this man had laid down laws meant only to be followed by youngho, as if god himself in their own little world between four walls.

he forgets that when he's hiding in the shower, and he's forcing himself to remember each and every rule, three is to never speak unless spoken to.

tears immediately flood his eyes, he wishes he were asleep instead, and he sobs, underweight to the point that when he falls under his own mass; he can barely feel it.

_"ten."_

he forgets that, when he's lying on the bed, mounted even, sixteen is to never move unless he's told to; unless it's needed. 

the control of his body, he's sure he lost long ago.

"look at me." 

this is when the fight must end.

this puts an end to all of his stubbornness, this is when he has to force eye contact, when he has to force his gaze to meet his uncle's; and let it all dissolve into acceptance of punishment.

except, this time is strange.

he doesn't look up, he doesn't stop crying, he doesn't stop holding himself as he sobbed—he has no will to stop, nor follow the orders.

his uncle becomes a livid drunkard in the blink of an eye—"look." he screams, _"LOOK!"_

but youngho wails, teary eyes meeting the devil in the room as he flaunt his anger. he picks up his gun.

there is no time for self-pity.

shivering, sobbing, grunting and groaning—weak legs shake as he stands, his tired eyes observe.

"seven."

_fuck._

youngho can't remember, he can't remember, he can't, _can't, he can't._

"now. right now."

he can't! 

"off, all of it, now."

it shouldn't relieve him, but it does. 

he starts with his shirt, then his pants, and he finishes with his underwear—but he'd always felt unclothed; with the eyes that bore into his skin, there wouldn't be a day he didn't feel exposed, mangled and exposed, as if his uncle’s gaze alone peeled back his skin and bones and stared into his dying soul.

"come here."

there it is, the unhinged look in beady eyes and beckoning call—the look of insanity and reason all at once.

"closer."

nobody in the world could ever recreate the fear in seo youngho's eyes as he sunk to his knees, opening his starved mouth with resistance—not even he himself could.

but at that moment, fear was all there was. fear is all there is.

the moments pass with heavy airs, it isn't silent at all—the television blares faux laughter and tacky old-school jokes, the fan whirs in the kitchen as it struggled to keep up with its high setting; outside was filled with the sound of life, inside was a mesh of death and unanimous trauma. the sound of him gagging, sobbing, it was the bleak conflict in the music of modern life.

it finishes; fiasco of forced fellatio ending with an explosion; fear is no longer the only thing he tastes.

he doesn't know how to react to it, doesn't remember what the older man said when he set his words in stone—no, he forgets it all, just feels his bones vibrate in disgust as an unwanted essence dries in his hair and dirties his mouth. it forces tears again, and the wish to wash himself with endless time.

it should end.

but it, whatever it really was, he finds had only been paused.

"nine."

he became rigid.

teeth grit, arms held the body they sprouted from—how could he do it? he could never proudly march into the lion's den, only if he lusted for death enough.

the bed.

he took steps unsure, made sounds fearful, yet somehow made it to his bed.

the bed, where his body was no longer his. _again._

where his words mattered even less than they did before, and neck-down he became a puppet.

he likes to tell himself it's not controllable that he makes sounds, or that he moves with whatever is given to him as reward—but it doesn't stop his crying. 

"be grateful!" uncle says, "I care. I do." and if youngho were in his right mind, he wouldn't agree. but he does—he does admit to the fairness, the preparation given before he's used and broken into. he does.

but it hurts. 

and it lasts forever.

and he hates that he can't stop sobbing, and that he keeps begging in this little, desperate voice— _“please stop, please stop, please stop.”_ —he hates how his mind gets fuzzy, that his words twist and he reverts to that tiny, first-time-touched, soiled bed and raw throat... _him._

when all is done, damage irreversible as always; he continues to cry.

"get over it. the neighbours will hear." uncle says, but youngho can't—and when did the neighbours ever care? he'd once screamed help for hours as he was held down, beat even—and there had been nothing in return. not even a knock at the door.

he's left with the echoes of his sobs, the itch of his eyes and run of his nose.

youngho thinks it'd best if he could die from crying, not the man in the other room.

but even as time crawls by, methodically dancing to his cries each tick, each tock; he doesn't silence from death nor satisfaction. 

uncle shouts from somewhere in the house, uncle bellows, uncle screams—uncle scares him!

_"come here."_

it sounds like a whisper, but he obeys—slips off the bed with pain in his body and hurt scarring his soul; his tiptoes into the hallway, his eyes never leave the floor.

_endure the humiliation._

he bypasses his clothes, legs shaking.

_endure the constant evil._

there's nothing much to see in the reflection glinting from the wall decorations, just a sad little boy. 

_endure the endless sexualization, since young, endure it!_

then uncle is in the kitchen. his belt is slung over his shoulder. scars sting in memory.

_endure it all._

the kitchen tile is cold under his bare feet, he fidgets onto the edge of his foot, his ankle complains but—there he is.

naked, lanky, hair to the most prominent bone of his neck—waiting.

"why do you cry so much?" 

underlying tone of demand, glossy eyes and tensed shoulders—again? this always means he wants to terrorize him, but again? he can't be right! he can't, just can’t—

youngho steps back.

but, for once, he is right.

he gets chased into his mother's room, stuck against the wall, uncle hovering at the door.

they watch each other, predator and prey—he's caged in, he's fearful, yet the predator moves slow.

calculated, precise.

cornered, he feels tears fall. cornered, he's nearly chest to chest with his monster under the bed, but his monster looks a lot like his mom, maybe her _brother_ —

"j-joonseok." he croaks out, his voice cracks, how old is he? "please stop."

"get down."

he hiccups, "please." he whispers, "no more." he cries.

"no more. I don’t want it."

fourteen—joonseok moves faster than his intoxication should let him.

fifteen—he pushes youngho, too scared to ever fight, down to his knees.

sixteen—"it's all you're good for!” he yells, “ you're a fucking idiot, too fucking stupid to function—you act like a child, cry and beg like a toddler and can't even take care of yourself!"

seventeen—hands touch him, the belt drop, his skin prickles, he nearly wets the floor.

eighteen—"you, nobody else will want you! you’re worthless. so you should be happy! be happy I know what you're best for!"

nineteen—fingers pry at his lips, his mouth still tastes weird, his bottom hurts, it hurts.

twenty—"what's this? wanna be a ‘good boy’ now? after all I've done!?"

twenty—"you can't tell me no! my rules, my rules!" 

twenty—"if you don't want to make uncle happy, then end it. you're nothing without me, nothing—you’re nothing but what you can be under me, in my hands!"

twenty—"just kill yourself, get it over with, make uncle feel bad for making you a better you, why don't you?"

twenty.

already twenty years old, yet still tortured like _this._

"do it."

uncle slides his hand into his breast pocket, his fingers hold a blade—a razor, a killer, a weapon.

youngho holds his own wrist, his position something akin to that of a beggar—except he begged for the end of his rape, his abuse; for a house is what he dreamt to escape.

his arm is gripped, the blade is pushed into his palm, it nicks his finger and blood begins to surface, his brain is jumbled, he thinks uncle cut him like that once, maybe when he was sixteen—"please, please, please, please." and "no, no, no, no." is all that he manages to say.

"if you think uncle isn't giving you the best life you could live,"

uncle smiles, a drunken smile youngho knows—but it's drying on his face, he can still taste it on his tongue, he feels like fire is melting his very insides, scorching and red and— _"end it."_

pure horror, the shiver of being petrified—"n-no uncle, no—I-I just want to go, please let me go"

home? hell? to where?

his uncle pulls him up, his eyes are excited, "do it! be a good boy, just like you want! let me see!"

he kisses him, so abruptly, so quickly— _"show uncle what fear is."_

he sobs, lackluster to joonseok as he press his lips against the boy's mouth—his favourite place, his favourite thing—he loves youngho, he does, never doubt it—

joonseok loved youngho just as much as his own father loved him—the terror he felt each night his father came into his room was just the same for youngho, and he loved that too.

youngho is shaking, he drops the blade, his heart is racing, he can't see past his tears—he's trying to push uncle away, he doesn't want it again, he doesn't want to die, he doesn't want to be hurt, he—

he feels the gun in joonseok's waistband.

 _this thing kills_ , his brain says, _make him stop_ it says even louder.

and he can’t say _no_.

he feels himself yank it out, feels himself hold the handle all wrong but—he pulls the trigger and watches joonseok fall to his knees, clutching his thigh.

laughter, roaring laughter—is youngho a comedian? has he told the joke centuries have developed?

no. no. no.

"STUPID BITCH!" he wails, borderline a chuckle,

"YOU THINK YOU'RE SO STRONG ALL OF A SUDDEN? FUCKING WHORE. YOU THINK THIS ‘LL STOP ME? YOU THINK YOU'RE STRONGER THAN ME? YOU’RE JUST GONNA END UP LIKE _ME!_ "

his hand flies out, fingers graze the scarred flesh of his nephews thigh—youngho screams, he screams, points the gun at the man in any way and it shoots and joonseok sobs and grabs his arm with his uninjured hand and he shouts.

he shouts.

_he shouts._

"YOU'LL NEVER BE ANYTHING, YOU'RE NOTHING! JUST MY STUPID, PRETTY NEPHEW—” he taunts, “you're gonna be just like me!" and he wheezes the last part out, but it hurts the most, and it scares youngho so bad he just can't control his want for freedom of this putrid man and his mocking and this hell—

he shoots again, even though he feels dizzy and wants to puke and—joonseok wheezes, he can hear the man’s lungs struggle as he hyperventilates, his stomach is bleeding now; "it's a cycle," he says, "I was you, now you're me. stupid. weak."

"a gun won't help you escape me. you'll still be mine, you'll still be useless. remember that scar on my back, huh? I still remember when I got it. you’re gonna be just like that, gonna remember every night that someone you thought you could trust fucked you, took everything you loved and screwed it all up so he can touch you. the only time you matter is when you're keeping those legs open for me, for me only."

"for uncle."

youngho gets dizzy, he remembers the first time, he remembers words of secrecy and threat being sent his way. _don't tell on uncle, do it for uncle, keep it a secret for uncle, only for uncle._

he shoots, it barely registers, he shoots—so many times that the body so familiar with forcing his own drooped, collapsed even. it makes him feel hurt, he killed someone just like him—he killed someone who’d been raped and beat too! but…

but he could still hear it, his own hysteric sobs as uncle touched him and touched him and—how could he shut him up? was there any way to stop it?

he misses woody, his little ears and fluffy tail—he falls, his knees sting from the impact, his hands are shaking, he's crying so loudly his ears ring.

his misses mom, dad was never really there but mom! mom always cared! he killed two people like him, huh?

but him and mom were always so _pretty_ to joonseok, isn’t that what he said? always said it wasn’t fair he didn’t get to gloat about touching them because they were blood, always said this and that, always talked and _talked and talked and talked_ —

he won't shut up! he won't shut up!

he covers his own mouth, tries to stop his sobs and the screams but—uncle is still touching him and hitting him and hurting him, it’s all he can think about, times he said he loved him when he scared him so bad; times he bragged that mom was good to him, but after dad came and he was born it all went to shit—

he doesn’t wanna hear it! it’s scary, he hates it—why won’t he shut up!?

he pushes the gun into the man's mouth, and pulls away because maybe it will muffle his words—but his eyes still shine with anger, youngho's are wet with fear, and he _keeps talking and taunting and saying those dirty things and—_

he pulls the trigger one last time.

///

he'd showered maybe four times by the time they'd shown up.

he'd been brave enough to get to the bathroom, but leaving the room entirely was something he couldn't even imagine doing. his mind was jumbled, but all he could think about was woody and his journal—and he held onto it with all his strength, it made him feel better, his mom made him write journals and yoonoh gave him the diary so, so it reminded him of the _good times_ , even though what he wrote was...

youngho could hear them inside the house, but he didn't really move.

he wasn't hiding, but he was curled up on the floor, next to the bed. he'd cried all over again too, because the showers didn't help, he still felt icky.

they stormed into the room, but his eyes didn't focus on any of them—then he was pulled up, yanked around, and voices yelled; shouting at him.

they threw a blanket around him, but he'd still been cuffed, then carried to a car—maybe a truck—and stuffed into the backseat.

he thought, maybe, _hopefully_ , he fainted.

///

the neighbours had called the police—not for him to be safe, no, but because they'd heard gunshots.

the bullshit they spewed at court was neither enough to make him cry nor care. 

something along the lines of, "we always heard screams and crying, and sometimes we would see that boy getting hit; but we thought it was just family problems!"

his father had been there too.

not a word about what he knew slipped from his lips.

the woman defending him was sure she was doomed, but did her best anyways. things like, "do you really think he just up and killed the man?" and, "he's only twenty, only weighs 90 or so pounds—family problems doesn't do that to a boy, nor does it cause him to murder the only adult in his life." but it didn't really work, it didn't sway the jury nor the judge.

when they'd asked him to talk, he didn't. he was too scared, too embarrassed and ashamed for coherent thought to translate into words of self-defense—because what would he even say? would he up and admit his uncle raped him, beat him, and kept him like a pet, like a hostage in his own home? in front of all these people, would he say the moment he truly began puberty, uncle was shoving his hands in his pants and making him do things in the bathroom? that uncle liked to call him names and choke him when his, his _thing_ was inside of him, liked pushing it down his throat even though sometimes he puked and—

in the end, just a few minutes past an hour, he was found guilty. 

he didn't cry much, until he was being transported. he still held onto his journal.

his first week at the prison, the woman who defended him visited. 

she told him that, to secure the results of the hearing, the people who wanted him in prison didn't do anything during the investigation; just brought up all the possibilities of him being psychotic but sane. it didn’t make sense, but the jury agreed.

 _crazy_ , they concluded, was the only possible reason a twenty year old living with his uncle in his dead, divorced mother’s home would kill a man. it made him cry, but only for so long before he felt he could cry no more.

"but there's a 19 percent chance your innocence can be proven...if you just talk." she'd said, "tell the court what happened to you, tell them what he did, and they'll have no choice but to investigate!"

that didn't make him feel good at all. there was no proof any of it had happened—not that he knew of.

if they truly thought he was insane, they’d disregard his journal and say he made it all up—they’d say everything he said was fake, and he’d be right back in jail. they’d say he had no physical evidence, that they’d searched the home but found no signs of sexual abuse, would say all the beer bottles and stained clothes was normal stuff; would say the neighbours saw uncle hurt him, but it was regular uncle-nephew interaction.

he had no chance whatsoever.

“it won’t work.” he remembers saying, after an eon had passed in pure silence because his words feared to be exposed and he always choked them down before they came into existence—“it won’t work, they think I’m crazy. it won’t work.”

“I won’t stop trying until it does.” he remembers her replying, confident—and the sincerity of her tone truly made him believe.

and when she left, reassuring him that even if she didn’t visit often she was trying to help, that she was going to help him no matter what; he had a tiny but blooming light of hope.

but it stuck with him for only so long.

**Author's Note:**

> tw//implied forced oral, implied and referenced rape, murder, complete mental breakdown, implied coerced suicide attempt, mention of razor blade, gun use, intimidation with a gun, etc. read tags.


End file.
